The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 David Carter (autobiographies to read txt) 📖

mauve velvet collection bags were sent out. Saint Jude’s had never collected so much cash, including, as the choirboys would witness afterwards, when the donations were emptied into a rusty red Crawford’s biscuit tin, banknotes amongst the haul.

‘I mean,’ said Army, meeting Dennis afterwards on the way back to Saint Edmond’s, ‘what kind of person puts notes in a collection bag? They must half be loaded.’

Dennis shook his head in disbelief and returned to thinking of Machara and her green kilt and long socks and matching green knickers.

After the service, the Reverend McGowan stood on the steps and pressed the flesh of people he had never met before. He heard worshippers muttering in amazement as they made their way home. Snatches of conversation permeated his hairy ears. ‘What did you think of the boy? Amazing, wasn’t he? Well better than that bloke off the telly. Unique, truly unique.’

‘Well better,’ nodded the others, in that slight Merseyside accent that intrigued Blair and Machara so.

SOMEONE INFORMED THE local radio station. It featured on one of the radio phone-ins that dominated the schedules. Radio Merseyside sent a scout to the next service. She returned with excited tales of packed churches and electric atmospheres, and people coming from all over. The boy is amazing! We must cover it!

The broadcasting truck rolled up on Thursday, and for the next two days technicians pulled and prodded their wires and mics into place.

House full notices went up outside the church!

A loudspeaker relay was set up outside to feed the overspill crowd. Armitage was fifteen and a seasoned performer. He was due to solo two of his favourite pieces and aimed to be note perfect. After he had finished final practice Machara came into the church, seeking her father, but she made a beeline for Armitage, thrusting a rabbit’s foot into his hand, whispering in her gentle Scottish lilt, ‘All the best for tomorra, Armitage, aye,’ and her father arrived and they turned and hustled away.

Armitage didn’t answer, not even a mumbled thanks.

Crazy talk of a record company executive being spotted in the car park circulated, though how anyone would recognise such a person was never explained.

‘You’re going to be a star,’ someone said, not that Armitage heard.

In the Saint Jude’s choir, Armitage Shelbourne was already a star.

He had been from the first day he’d arrived.

On the Saturday night before the concert he’d gargled his throat, went to bed in the same long dormitory; pulled himself down his narrow bed, and said a silent prayer for his mother. He caressed the rabbit’s foot, thought of Machara and the concert, and his singing, and fell asleep.

He enjoyed a good night’s sleep and woke early... with a sore throat.

He coughed hard to clear the phlegm.

There wasn’t any.

He sat up and stared across at Dennis. He was sitting on the side of his bed scratching his mousy head.

‘Hey, Dennis, I’ve got a sore throat.’

Dennis beamed and jumped up and walked over to Army’s bed.

‘You haven’t got a sore throat, you prick! Your voice has broken, and about time! We were thinking you were a right one. We thought it might never happen!’

That couldn’t be right, not on his big day. Surely to God, not today. Dennis was talking rubbish. He often did. Army took a deep breath and launched into Mozart’s The Violet and Alleluia. The croaking that followed sounded like rusty barbed wire being dragged across dusty glass.

‘You’re knackered, mate!’ grinned Dennis. ‘You’d better get used to it. You’re a man now! It’s taken long enough for your sprouts to hit the deck!’

Army rushed to the church. The technicians were hustling about, completing final preparations.

He hurried to the reverend’s private rooms at the back. Blair was standing before a full-length mirror, practising his speech. It was his big day too, live on local radio, the chance to put his thoughts across to millions, well thousands, maybe. His words would be broadcast across the region, and he had plenty to say. Machara was there too, sitting at the back, reading her red leather bound New Testament.

‘Sorry, vicar, my voice has gone,’ croaked Army.

Machara glanced up.

Blair stifled three seconds of disappointment, smiled and said, ‘Your voice has broken, that’s all, it’s God’s work, it happens to everyone. It’s natural. Perhaps there is a reason behind it. Jimmy Wilson will take your place. He can manage, don’t you worry.’

‘But I was so looking forward to it.’

Machara grinned at the rough sounds escaping his mouth and returned to the book of Luke. He sounded ridiculous, as if someone was strangling him, yet oddly endearing.

Blair McGowan said, ‘Don’t ye worry about a thing. You’ll soon mature into a great tenor, bass, or baritone. It’s all there for you.’

Armitage doubted that.

‘But, but...’ he said.

‘But nothing,’ said the vicar, and resumed his rehearsal, as Armitage stared at the floor and sauntered away.

The concert went ahead as planned, Armitage scowling at the back, not daring to inflict his ear wrenching contribution on a packed house.

The nervous Jimmy Wilson struggled throughout, missing top notes, and forgetting words. He had never imagined he would have to perform live on the radio. Afterwards the crowds melted away, a feeling of disappointment and anticlimax in the air.

They all heard the comments as the congregation melted away.

Nowhere near as good as usual.

The lads in our local church could have done better.

The occasion got the better of them.

If only I’d known I’d have stayed away.

What a waste of time.

What was all the fuss about?

How disappointing!

ARMITAGE RETURNED TO Saint Edmond’s with a heavy heart. That night he lay awake into the early hours, thinking of what might have been.

Through the following months, he waited for his voice to set. He was desperate sing again. But his voice stubbornly refused to settle. He continued to blare out a ragged mess of uncoordinated clatter and never found an authentic voice again.

He was on the brink of adult life and had no idea what he would do next.

There was talk of him leaving, going